


Valiant Of Heart

by Whisper91



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arthurian, Canonical Character Death, Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, Eggsy gets the childhood he deserves, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic-Users, Medieval AU, Mentor/Protégé, Merlin is a wizard, Pre-Slash, lots of horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Unwins have always been stablemen. Eggsy's father was the stable master at Lord Hart's estate, just like his father  before him, and that same position was all stable-boy Eggsy thought to look for in his own future.<br/>Fate, it seemed, had another destiny in mind.</p><p> </p><p>(A Medieval-era/Fantasy AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valiant Of Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KagekaNecavi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KagekaNecavi/gifts).



 

.

Eggsy’s earliest memories are of the stables.

Long, happy days spent trailing after his father, learning how to groom and saddle, how to soothe a restless horse, how to read its temperament in the flex of its ears and the swish of its tail. He still recalls that incomparable feeling of awe and delight at the sheer _size_ of the creatures, whose wariness of his presence had eased to begrudging acceptance after a summer spent shadowing his father, to the point where horses would willingly lower their heads over the stall partitions when he passed by and nuzzle at his cheek with soft, velvety lips.

“They can’t use words like you and I,” his father had told him once, large, warm fingers cupped over Eggsy’s tiny hand as he guided the soft grooming brush over a gleaming flank. “But they can still speak to us, in their own way. It’s our duty to listen, and learn to understand them.”

And so, from the day he was old enough to leave his mother’s side, he’d followed in his father’s footsteps, rising at dawn and rushing out of their small cottage on the edge of Lord Hart’s grand estate to trek across the open grounds towards the stables. His eagerness to start the day had both amused and exasperated his parents in equal measure, as too often he was up and out through the door without his boots on or his tunic back-to-front in his haste to greet the horses.

Indeed, it was the consequences of this enthusiastic dedication to his duties that had earned him the name ‘Eggsy’.

“You can’t fit a whole egg in your mouth, ducky,” his mother had chided gently, hiding her smile as she mopped up the yellow yoke before it could stain his clothes. “And all over your nice clean tunic, too.”

“The horses won’t mind,” his father had dismissed cheerfully, after seeing the lad’s downtrodden expression. He’d stood from the table with a smile and slung his leather satchel over his shoulders, extending a hand towards the boy. “Come on then, my eggsy-lad. Let’s get to work.”

The name had stuck, and his father had ceased calling him ‘Gareth’ altogether shortly thereafter (unless the boy was in trouble, where both family and Christian names would be used in conjunction as a forewarning of impending chastisement). The other stablehands had soon followed suit, and by the time he was six, Eggsy was so unfamiliar with his real birth name that he often failed to respond when it was used by others.

He’d been a small lad back then – _“all skin and bone”_ his mother would lament, as she added another spoonful of porridge to his bowl at breakfast – with a shock of blond hair that stuck up at all angles and refused to be tamed by both brush and fine-toothed comb. His father would often jest that one day a horse would mistake it for fresh hay and render him bald as a monk, but it hadn’t deterred Eggsy in the slightest. The horses were his friends, and if they fancied a bite out of his hair, they were welcome to it.

Eggsy’s family held no great fortune to their name – his father a stable master while his mother tended to Lord Hart’s herb garden behind the kitchens – but there had always been enough coin left over at the end of the month for sweetmeats from the marketplace, gifts for the Winter Solstice, new tunics and breeches whenever Eggsy outgrew his old ones. And he’d never once gone hungry, even if their fare had been of a simpler nature than some. Life had been peaceful, carefree, and Eggsy had taken it all for granted, naively assuming (as children are wont to do) that his circumstances would remain unchanged.

Unfortunately, he’d been very much mistaken on that account.

 

 

 

 

…………………………..

 

 

 

 

It isn’t the warning bells that wake him, although their frantic clanging is the first thing he hears when he opens his eyes to see a shadowed figure stooping over his bed.

“Get dressed, lad,” his father tells him, his voice hushed but urgent, and drops his hand from Eggsy’s shoulder. “Quickly now, there isn’t much time.”

Groggy and confused, Eggsy obeys, fumbling in the darkness to find his tunic and breeches. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks softly, his words sleep-slurred, and almost trips over one of his boots. “Why are the bells ringin’?”

But the man’s already gone, leaving the door open to allow the pale, flickering candlelight to bleed in from the main room of the cottage. Eggsy stomps his feet into the boots and hurries to follow, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, unease coiling tight in his belly like a cold, leaden weight as the clanging of the manor’s bells grows louder still.

The front door’s wide open, the frigid night air wafting through to make the flames dance in the fireplace as the wind teases at the fabric of his mother’s nightgown. She’s thrown a winter cloak over the top and donned the thick-soled shoes she wears when tending to the herb gardens, but her long golden hair tumbles over her shoulders in unplaited curls. Eggsy’s never seen his mother quite so out of sorts.

“You aren’t a soldier,” she says fiercely, catching hold of her husband’s sleeve as he reaches for something in the rafters. “Your place is here _,_ with your family.”

Lee pauses but doesn’t lower his arms. “We’ll be no safer here if they take the manor house,” he insists. “This is our _home,_ ‘chelle – it’s my duty to protect it.”

He carefully lifts down a long, narrow item wrapped in length of cloth, criss-crossed with thick twine, and it isn’t until the firelight glints off the metal on the hilt that Eggsy realises it’s his grandfather’s sword.

The boy’s stomach twists as a sharp, sickening pulse of fear shallows his breathing and sets his heart a-fluttering in his chest. He may be young, but he’s no simpleton; the bells are ringing as a call to arms, and his father intends to answer it.

“Eggsy.” The stable master crosses the room briskly to crouch down in front of him, large hands resting on his shoulders. “Stay here and mind your mother, lad. And if she tells you to run,” he squeezes the narrow shoulders for emphasis, “then you make for the village as fast as your feet can carry you. Find the sheriff’s lodgings, you’ll be safe there. Do you understand?”

The boy nods quickly, mute with fear. He hasn’t seen his father this gravely serious about something since the incident in the orchard, when Jamal the merchant’s son had dared Eggsy to jump from one apple tree to another and he’d almost broken his leg in the fall.

Lee smiles at him, but it’s a flickering shadow of a thing that doesn’t look right on his face. He pulls the boy into a brief, fierce embrace, pressing a kiss to his crown, and Eggsy’s fingers cling the front of his father’s leather jerkin, worry cloying hot and tight in his throat. This feels awfully like saying ‘goodbye’, and Eggsy doesn’t like it, not one bit.

“Bar the door,” his father instructs, straightening up after a long moment and crossing back over to his wife. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Michelle reaches out to catch her husband’s sleeve again. “Promise me,” she says, her voice faltering. “Promise me you _will_ come back.”

The stable master pauses at the threshold, slowly turning to lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, fingers gently uncurling Michelle’s hand from his tunic sleeve.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

And then he’s gone, out into the inky blackness of the night beyond the doorway, leaving nought but silence and grief in his wake. The clanging of the manor’s warning bells continues, loud and echoing, until Michelle finally seems to emerge from her stupor and slams the front door closed, muffling the sound, and slides the iron bolts into place at top and bottom to lock it securely. In a swirl of fabric, she turns abruptly and crosses over to the fireplace, dousing the flames with water from the pot by the hearth and blowing out the candelabra on the shelf above, leaving them with only a single flickering candle to chase away the darkness.

Eggsy watches as she fetches Grandmother’s dagger (a wedding gift from Grandfather, or so his mother had told him) from the wooden chest in the corner of the room and tucks it into the sleeve of her nightdress out of sight, before moving over to her favourite chair near the fireplace. Her hands tremble as she tucks the cloak about herself, but the smile she directs at Eggsy is full of warmth and reassurance. He crosses the room at a run and climbs into the safety of her lap, resting his head against her chest as she strokes his hair.

In recent months he’s begun to insist that he’s growing too old for such coddling, but the eight summers he holds to his name suddenly seem very few indeed.

“Why didn’t he promise?” Eggsy asks after a while, his voice hushed.

His mother doesn’t reply, but he feels her arms tighten around him, the tremble in her hand as she strokes it through his hair, and decides maybe he doesn’t want to hear the answer anyway.

They sit together quietly for what feels like an eternity, watching the candlewax drip and pool at the base of the stand. The distant bells have finally ceased their clamouring, but Eggsy finds that the deafening silence they leave behind is far worse.

Eventually, exhaustion catches up to him and he slips into a doze.

When he next startles awake he’s alone in the chair, wrapped up snugly in his mother’s cloak. There’s daylight streaming in through the open door, the smell of smoke carried in on the wind, and Eggsy scrubs at his eyes and stretches his stiff limbs as he yawns.

It isn’t until he crosses the room towards his parent’s bedchamber in search of his mother that he catches sight of the assembly outside the cottage. He freezes, heart shooting up into his throat, remembering the warnings bells from last night. But it’s only Mr Thorpe, keeper of the keys, and a handful of Lord Hart’s guardsman – he recognises them from the black and brown colouring of their uniforms. Perhaps they have come with news of what happened last night.

He inches closer to linger at the threshold, and finds his breath stolen again at the sight of his mother on her knees in the flowerbed, face buried in her hands and body shaking with quiet sobs. There’s a young lass from the kitchens – Martha, he thinks – with an arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her, as an unfamiliar man stands over them both.

Eggsy’s never seen his mother cry so despairingly before, and it frightens him. He’d been trying to stay silent, but clearly he must utter some quiet noise of distress because the unfamiliar person turns towards the cottage, dark cloak fluttering behind him in the wind, and the grim set to the man’s mouth makes Eggsy feel all twisty and worried inside.

“Hello there,” the stranger greets quietly, and moves away from the group at a slow pace, coming to a halt in the doorway. He goes down on one knee slowly, wincing as he does so. “And who might you be?”

“Eggsy,” the boy replies, because his parents have told him to always answer his betters politely, and clearly this man is someone of great importance, if his fine clothes and shiny boots are any indication. “Well, I s’pose my real name’s Gareth, Sir, but I like Eggsy best.”

The stranger’s lips twitch up in a funny, sad sort of smile. “I like Eggsy, too,” he replies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, lad. My name is Harry.”

“Harry?” Eggsy echoes curiously. “You mean like Lord Hart’s son?”

The man dips his head in a silent nod, and Eggsy’s wariness eases tenfold. He’s never met his master’s son in person; the younger Hart seems to spend most of the year on the other side of the kingdom, serving as a member of the King’s Guard. But Eggsy’s father speaks of Harry often enough, and fondly too, for they’d grown up together as lads. It had apparently been Eggsy’s grandfather who’d first taught the young lord how to ride a horse, and Lee had learned his letters under Harry’s tutelage during summer afternoons spent skiving from their duties in the orchard. A few years back, the young lord had gifted Lee with a beautiful bay mare called Jubilee, when he’d been appointed stable master after Grandfather’s passing. That same horse had birthed a foal not three weeks ago, in fact; a clumsy, affectionate, energetic thing upon whom Eggsy had bestowed the name ‘Just Bonkers’, on account of its eccentricities. He loves it dearly nonetheless.

“I’ve been helpin’ to look after Mr Pickles for you,” the boy tells him. The old pony had been let out to pasture many years ago, and in recent months has had the strength to do little more than sleep and graze, but Eggsy still goes out to the meadow every day to keep him company and feed him apple slices. “Father says he’s your favourite.”

The young lord gives Eggsy another one of those sad, tired smiles. “That he is. You’re a good lad.”

Harry sighs then, a grief-weary sound that quakes in Eggsy’s very bones, and closes his eyes briefly as he reaches down to push the folds of his cloak aside and unbuckle something from his belt. He presents it to the boy on flattened palms, head bowed.

“Your father was a good man,” the man tells him quietly. “And a dear friend. He fought bravely, and stood his ground against the enemy until the very last. Were it not for him, the manor would certainly have been taken, and countless lives lost. I, too, owe him my life. Had he not come to my defence, they would be burying me alongside my father this afternoon.”

Eggsy doesn’t fully understand what Harry’s is trying to say. Or rather, he _does,_ but he can’t bring himself to believe it. He reaches out numbly to take his father’s sword, surprised by the weight of it, and brings it in close to hug it to his chest.

“Thank you,” he manages, because good manners are all he has to fall back on at the moment.

Harry studies his face a moment longer, grief and exhaustion suddenly making him look much older, and reaches out to settle his hands on the boy’s narrow shoulders.

“I know there’s nothing I can do to fully repay that debt,” he says. “No gift I can give that can stand as substitute for the sacrifice he made. But I gave him my word that I’d do my best to protect you, and I intend to stand by it.”

The young lord reaches beneath the collar of his tunic and lifts a delicate silver chain over his head, holding it aloft. A beautiful pendant glints in the morning sunlight, a circular silver shield with delicate patterns etched into the surface, and a dark green emerald set in the very centre.

“This is my family crest,” Harry tells him, carefully laying the chain over Eggsy’s neck, sliding the pendant around to sit, warm and heavy, against his chest. “I want you to keep it, as a mark of my promise to you.”

Eggsy nods to show his understanding, although he’s feeling very much overwhelmed by the lot of it. Harry gives him another sad smile, brushes a hand through the boy’s hair briefly, and then straightens up to depart with the assembled group back towards the manor house in the distance.

It’ll be the last time he sees Lord Hart’s son for another ten years.

 

 

 

 

………………………

 

 

 

 

 

Eighteen men had died that night.

Eggsy takes the long, solemn walk from their cottage to the manor’s vast stone courtyard, his mother pale and silent as a ghost beside him, but clinging to his hand with a fierce strength as though afraid the wind might take him from her. The morning’s sun has fled behind thick grey clouds that loom overhead, threatening rain, and the wind has an icy nip to it that stings at the boy’s cheeks and nose. Eggsy wants to go back to the cottage. He wants to fall asleep and wake up to find that this is all nothing more than a dreadful, horrible dream. He definitely _doesn’t_ want to see whatever’s waiting for them in the courtyard.

The guardsman have laid out the dead to be claimed and buried by their loved ones, each one covered by a blanket, spaced apart in neat rows like horse tack waiting to be polished, and good god, there are so _many._

Thomas, who works alongside his father in the stables, is waiting for them beneath the archway to the courtyard, looking grim and tired. There’s a cut along his cheek, and one of his hands is bandaged in strips of clean linen, but he moves quickly and fluidly to intercept Michelle when she tries to walk past.

“The men and I can bring him home to you, lass,” the stable hand tells her quietly. “You needn’t fetch him yer sen.”

Her hand tightens around Eggsy’s almost painfully, and the boy glances up at his mother, biting his lip. Michelle has her head held high, her lips set thinly, dark red in her pale face. Her eyes are overbright and reddened from crying, but there are no tears on her cheeks, and when she replies her voice is hoarse but unwavering.

“He is my husband,” she insists, low but firm. “And I his wife. I will do my duty, and honour him by it. Stand aside.”

Thomas hesitates for a moment, then obliges, although he reaches out to lightly press a hand to Eggsy’s shoulder. “The lad doesn’t need to see his father like that.”

Michelle blinks, and glances down at Eggsy as though seeing him for the first time. Her chin trembles for a moment, but after a beat she crouches down in front of him, the shadow of a smile forcing its way into existence for his sake.

“Go mind the horses, Eggsy,” she tells him, and lifts both his hands to kiss them. “Stay there until you’re told otherwise, there’s a good boy.”

Eggsy leaves without a backwards glance towards the courtyard, and breaks into a sprint as soon as he turns the corner. He runs as fast as his numb, weightless legs will allow him, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the stables, skidding to a halt at the threshold.

He knows not to run in there, it’ll frighten the horses. That was the first lesson he’d learnt as a boy, and he’d spent many hours as a younger lad sitting on an upturned bucket in the corner of an empty stall, sulking, having been sent there by his father for breaking that rule and startling the animals.

The fighting doesn’t seem to have spread beyond the manor house and its adjoining buildings, but the horses have still been spooked by the noise, moving restlessly in their stalls as he enters, ears pressed flat back and hooves shifting against the ground uneasily.

“It’s alright,” he reassures, keeping his voice quiet the way he’s been taught to. “It’s only me. Nobody’s here to hurt you.”

Ears flicker frontwards at his voice, and a few heads lower themselves over the partitions cautiously, nostrils flaring for the scent of him. He moves further into the stables, standing up on his tiptoes to gently smooth his hands along lowered necks, talking all the while. His father always said that speaking to them is important – horses can’t understand everything, but it isn’t really the words that matter, as long as they know from his tone that Eggsy doesn’t mean them any harm.

He heads through the second archway to the tack chamber beyond, the scent of leather and polish sharp and familiar in his nose, manoeuvring around the workbenches and saddle-racks to the door on the opposite side of the room that leads to the rear stables, where the birthing mares and their foals are tended to.

Eggsy’s especially careful to move slowly and quietly in here. Not because the mares are particularly skittish or easily spooked, but because they’re far more defensive than the horses in the front stables.

He can still remember the first time he’d been bitten by a mare, a couple of years ago. He had been admiring the beautiful chestnut colt she’d recently birthed, inching closer to the stall partition while his father and Thomas tended to another of the horses, and had reached out to let the tiny foal sniff his hand. Its mother had stomped both front hooves in warning, thrust her head between him and the colt, and bitten his arm. He’d wept more from the shock of it than the pain itself, as Thomas rushed in to calm the mare and his father swept him up into his arms and out into the safety of the tack chamber, where he’d received much sympathy from the other stable hands and more than a few sweetmeats for his ‘bravery’ once his tears had dried. His father had taken him right back to that same mare after he’d recovered, and she’d nuzzled at his cheek and snuffed his hair as she’d always done, as though apologising for the nip she’d given him before.

Which is why he’s careful when he opens the door to Jubilee’s spacious stall and slips inside. Her foal is still for once, fast asleep over in the far corner, bay coat covered in stray bits of hay – probably because the colt had been rolling around in it before tiring himself out. He certainly lives up to the name Just Bonkers.

Jubilee lifts her head sharply at his entrance, but her ears quickly twitch forwards again when she sees him, moving closer to gently bump her muzzle against his brow. He reaches up to stroke her face, managing a teeny-tiny smile.

“’lo, girl,” he mumbles, and gets a puff of warm breath snorted in his face by way of a reply.

She lifts her head up higher to peer over the stall wall, clearly looking for her master, and all at once reality rushes up to hit him, a hot ache building in his throat. His father’s not there to help him tend to Jubilee and JB. Lee won’t be there to share the evening meal together with his mother tonight, or to tell him stories by the fire before bed, or to chivvy Eggsy into finishing his chores before they set off for the stables in the morning. He’s not coming home. He’s…he’s…

Eggsy sits down hard on the hay-strewn floor, his legs crumpling beneath him, eyes stinging and throat so tight it hurts to swallow. Jubilee blows out another soft snort and bends her neck to nuzzle at his brow again. Eggsy can’t even find the strength to lift his arms, it’s hard enough just trying to breathe through his tears and the crushing weight of grief pressing down on his chest.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, knees tucked up to his chest and face buried in his arms, but he cries until his eyes are sore and his throat’s dry and there are no more tears left to shed. There’s a solid warmth alongside him – at some point Jubilee has lowered herself down onto the hay, and she’ll turn her head periodically to nuzzle at his wet cheeks – but the stable is growing colder as the day wears on, and his hands and feet have grown numb after hours of inactivity. He can’t bring himself to move, though. The grownups won’t miss him, he’d only get in the way. And besides, Mother told him to stay here.

“S’just me now,” he murmurs to Jubilee, his voice raspy from crying, and turns to rest his cheek against her withers. He strokes his fingers carefully over her dark crest, smoothing some of the knots. “But I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

Exhausted from crying, and having had precious few hours of sleep the night before, he ends up dozing off against the mare. He only wakens when he feels hands lifting him beneath the arms, heaving him up against a solid torso. Eggsy jolts, sore, puffy eyes snapping open in alarm, but settles again when he sees it’s only Thomas.

“Come on, lad,” the groom murmurs, carrying him away from the stall and out through the stable doors. Outside, the sky’s tinted pink, readying itself for a clear, cold night. “Let’s get you home.”

Eggsy doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to see his mother’s red-rimmed eyes or the unoccupied seat at the table where his father’s supposed to be. The cottage won’t feel like home without him – it’ll seem so _empty._ Eggsy wants to stay back with Jubilee and JB, where it’s safe, where he can pretend that nothing has changed. But he’s old enough to know that wishes don’t come true, regardless of how much you want them to.

In the morning, they’ll bury his father, and Eggsy’s childhood will come to an end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

……………………….

 

 

 

 

 

A month after laying his father to rest, a young page arrives from Lord Hart’s manor with instructions for Eggsy to clean himself up and attend to a guest in the east library.

“What guest?” Eggsy asks, baffled, but the older boy has already departed. Sighing, he sets his grooming brush down and gives Jubilee an affectionate pat. “I’ll be back. Don’t go eatin’ all the apples while I’m gone, they aren’t just for you.”

Jubilee nickers and bumps her muzzle against his collarbone until he huffs a quiet laugh and ducks away. “Ge’roff.”

He goes to find Thomas to excuse himself from the stables, since the man now works as stable master in Lee’s stead, and makes his way back to the cottage for a quick, cold wash, scrubbing his face and hands and arms of visible dirt, and changes into his best tunic and breeches and boots.

“Eggsy?” his mother calls from her chair by the fireplace.

She spends a lot of time sitting there these days, her needlework laying forgotten in her lap as she stares into the flickering flames. Eggsy’s been worried about her, because she always looks so pale and tired and _thin,_ but Thomas says he just has to give her more time - that she’ll regain her strength and happiness when the summer months arrive.

Eggsy hopes so. It’s been a long, cold spring so far.

“I’m here,” he replies, and crosses over to her, leaning up to kiss her cheek. Her skin feels colder than it ought to be, given the warmth coming from the hearth.

Michelle’s attention finally flickers up from the fire, and she draws her gaze over him, eyebrows ascending in surprise. “Your best tunic? Has the master called for you?”

The boy shakes his head. “Been asked to attend to a guest up at the manor. Lord Hart’s gone back to serve the King, remember?” he reminds her patiently. “He left a couple of weeks ago.”

Eggsy hadn’t seen him in person, but he’d been eavesdropping through the crack in his bedroom door the night that Harry had come to say goodbye to his mother.

 _“I’m going away,”_ the nobleman had said. _“And I shan’t be back for some time. Our great kingdom is not the safe haven I once thought it to be. It seems my father had many enemies in life, and there are secrets left untold that I must now uncover, lest such a tragedy befall us a second time. I fully intend to avenge his murder, and that of your husband.”_  His voice had quietened then. _“You needn’t worry about the future; I’ll see to it that you’re provided for. The cottage is yours, of course. You needn’t pay rent for it – I owe your family a greater debt than could ever be repaid with coin or cloth. And should you require anything, you need only ask at the manor house.”_

 _“Thank you, my lord,”_ had been his mother’s low, terse reply. _“But my family needs nothing more from you. You’ve done quite enough already.”_

A short pause, then, _“Pray forgive me, I meant no offense. I only want what’s best for the boy; I gave Lee my word that I’d protect him. I intend to offer him an education - a chance to lead a better life, to reach his true potential. But I won’t interfere with his upbringing without your blessing.”_

Eggsy had heard his mother’s weary sigh, even from behind his bedroom door. _“Will you teach him how to protect himself? Lee wasn’t-”_ Her voice had cracked then, and there’d been a longer pause, and Eggsy’s heart had ached with the urge to go and comfort his mother. But after a beat she’d recovered without his aid. _“My husband was a brave man, my lord – braver than most – but he was no great swordsman. If my boy’s to be educated in the ways of letters and books and such, I want him to know more than which end to hold when he picks up a weapon.”_

 _“I’ll see that he receives adequate training,”_ had been Lord Hart’s quiet promise.

 _“Thank you,”_ his mother had repeated, softer and more genuine than her previous utterance, and the front door to the cottage had closed shortly thereafter, signalling the man’s departure.

His mother has a faint frown line forming between her eyebrows at present, as though recalling that very same conversation. She reaches out to fix his collar and smooth out the wrinkles in his tunic, giving his hair a quick comb with her fingers (it still sticks up rebelliously at all angles, in spite of her efforts).

“Well, mind your manners,” she tells him, patting his cheek. “Perhaps it’s someone coming to enquire about the horses. Nobody knows them better than you, ducky.”

Eggsy knows it to be true, but doubts a trader would ask to see a boy his age if looking to sell a birthing mare to the stables. They would send for Thomas, or one of the older stable-hands, surely. Still, he’s not in a position to refuse the summons, and sets off back towards the mansion as quick as he can (without scuffing dirt all over his nice boots and breeches), and heads up the stone steps towards the gigantic oaken doors. The door-knocker is in the shape of a lion's head, it's gaping mouth opened in a roar, and the iron ring that hangs from it is so heavy he actually has to use both hands to make it knock.

“Ah, Gareth,” the elderly doorman greets. Eggsy’s known Philip all his life, but the man’s never obliged him in his nickname. “There’s a gentlemen waiting for you in the east library; you know where to find it. Run along now.”

The Hart manor house is vast and expansive, but Eggsy’s always known that. He’s been in and out of it often enough relaying messages to the staff or delivering letters and packages brought by courier riders from all over the Kingdom; important matters of state, or so the gossiping whispers had said. The late Lord Hart had once been a member of the King’s trusted council, apparently – “ _as high up the tree as you can climb without knocking the King off his perch”_ had been his father’s assessment.

Which was perhaps why those men had attacked and killed him last month; not everybody liked the king, or the laws he’d put in place, or that he asked people for money simply for living on his land when he was already, presumably, very rich. But his father had called Harry a ‘ _good and honest man’,_ and surely such a person would not dedicate their life in service to the crown if the king himself was so very selfish.

The east library is a beautiful chamber, spacious and airy, with a tall ceiling that allows for an upper walkway, accessed by spiralling staircases on either side of the room. There are too many books for one man to read in a lifetime, and he can’t imagine why a nobleman would want to keep them – surely they must be a nightmare to keep clean? Although he supposes the late Lord Hart never actually did any of the cleaning himself, so perhaps such a thought had never occurred to him. Still, Eggsy likes the smell – leather and paper and ink and something smoky-sweet that’s really rather pleasant. And the view from the half-wall of windows that overlooks the rose garden, and the duck pond beyond that with its little wooden bridge, is truly a pretty sight. He can’t fault the old man for having spent so much time here in his latter days.

“You must be Eggsy.”

The boy jumps at the voice from above, glancing up sharply in time to see a man slowly descending the stairs from the upper walkway, a book in hand.

Eggsy tries not to stare, because staring is rude, but the man’s appearance comes as a bit of a shock. He has a young face, likely no older than Harry save perhaps by a few years, but he’s completely bald on top. He’s dressed in black breeches and boots, his white undershirt a stark contrast against the dark cut of his waistcoat, which hugs his frame closely – broad shoulders and a thick arms that any miller would be proud of. The man is dressed like a nobleman, but built like a pit-fighter – Eggsy is immediately fascinated.

“Yes, my lord,” he answers once the man has come to a halt in front of him, finally remembering his manners. “Eggsy Unwin.”

The stranger waves a dismissive hand. “Och no, lad. I get enough of that in Court. Call me Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Eggsy echoes obediently, with a tiny smile. The man has an accent the likes of which the boy’s never heard around these parts – deep and rumbling and thick – and he likes it immensely. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Aye,” Merlin confirms. “About your lessons. Harry Hart’s an old friend of mine – he asked if I might oversee your education.”

“My education?” the boy repeats, baffled. “Me, learnin’ letters an’ stuff?”

“Indeed,” the gentleman agrees, crossing over towards the window, gesturing for Eggsy to follow him. “The written word would be an excellent place to start. Lord Hart is also keen that you receive basic schooling in arithmetic, history and geography.”

Wide-eyed, the boy glances between the shelves of leather-bound books and the fancy-looking writing desk that’s been moved over to the window to overlook the gardens. _Lessons._ He’s going to have actual _lessons,_ from a proper tutor and everything. Him, Eggsy Unwin, who can just about recognise his own surname from the familiarity of the curves and squiggles but couldn’t actually tell you which letters those were phonetically.

“But what about my other duties?” he asks worriedly. He still leaves the cottage at dawn every day to head down to the stables, regardless of whether his mother has found the strength to rise from her own bed or not, and he’s seldom home before dark. Jubilee and JB are his responsibility now, and he still has the other birthing mares and their colts to attend to while Thomas manages the rest of the stables with the other stable hands. “I’m s’posed to look after the foals, an’ we’re due to start breakin’ in the eldest colt next week. Only gentle, mind, he don’t really know how to move proper just yet.”

The tutor smiles kindly, setting his book aside, and sits down in the chair beside the writing desk, patting the empty stool invitingly. “We can study around your commitments, lad. A couple of hours here and there, whenever the stables can spare you. I’ll only be here a few days a week – I still have Court duties that will require my attention every now and then – but if you practise on your own during the days that I’m absent, I’m certain we’ll make a scholar out of you within the year.”

The man sets a dark slate board and a dusty-white finger of chalk down in front of Eggsy, and props up a sheet of paper against the window-ledge. “Now, let’s start with the alphabet. You copy these letters down for me on your slate and see if you can tell me what they sound like.”

And thus Eggsy Unwin, son of a stable hand and a herb gardener, had begun his education.

Merlin, it turns out, is a kind hearted fellow; soft-spoken and patient as they come, never losing his temper when Eggsy forgets how a letter is supposed to sound, or the noise that two might create when used in conjunction, and rarely assigning him more tasks than he’s capable of finishing. The work is hard at times, and there are days when it feels like his head might explode from all the letters and numbers and maps he’s supposed to memorise, and sometimes he _longs_ for the simple peace and quiet of the stables and the familiar scent of fresh hay. But by the end of the season, he’s made a great deal of progress, and there’s a victorious sort of bounce to his step as he heads down to the coach-houses after his lessons every day.

“Look, JB – this is your name,” he says, turning the slate around for the foal to see. Eggsy’s sitting cross-legged in the corner of the colt’s new stall – he’s old enough now to be spending some time away from Jubilee, and he’s taking to it rather well. “See? It says ‘Just Bonkers’. That’s you.”

JB comes closer, pushing his muzzle right up in Eggsy’s face like he always does, and the boy laughs as he curls a gentle hand over the horse’s nose and directs its gaze downwards to the slate.

“No, silly. Here. See?” He spells out the letters phonetically, just like Merlin taught him – the more he does it, the easier it gets, and the quicker the sounds come to memory. “Like that. It’s a very long name, y’know. Even longer than mine! But JB is shorter, like this.” He rubs out the chalk, leaving just the two letters behind. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?”

JB snorts, head-butting him lightly, then turns to prance around the stall in dizzying circles, bucking up to kick his front legs at invisible foes.

Eggsy watches him with a smile, hugging the slate to his chest so that the foal doesn’t accidentally trample on it. Thomas will be breaking in the colt come winter, because he thinks JB might need more time and patience than the others. Eggsy doesn’t think so – his horse is a bit bonkers, that’s certainly true, but he’s quick and smart, and already responds to a few basic commands.

And there’s a part of Eggsy that doesn’t _want_ to train the foal out of his little eccentricities. They always made his father laugh, so they can’t be anything truly bad, can they?

 

 

 

 

…………………………..

 

 

 

 

“JB, no. _No,_ ” Eggsy chides, as he feels the horse begin to buck. He grips firmly with his thighs to keep from being unseated, and curls the reins around one fist so that he can pat the beast’s neck. “Easy, darlin’. It’s only a squirrel.”

The horse shifts restlessly, ears pressed flat back, and Eggsy heaves another quiet sigh as he dismounts smoothly, moving in front of the horse to block JB’s field of vision. The bay colt immediately settles, ears flickering forward again, and bumps up against Eggsy’s chest with an affectionate nicker.

The boy sighs again, stroking a hand up between JB’s eyes to comb his fingers through the dark forelock. “What am I going to do with you, boy?”

Five years old, and he still hasn’t managed to get the colt out of the training paddock. Thing is, JB can ride beautifully most of the time, with the smoothest canter Eggsy’s ever transitioned into, but then he’ll see a squirrel or a bird or a cat or hear the buzz of a bee, and it’s as though all of his training is forgotten in that instant and he’s a six week old foal again, scared of his own shadow.

“Eggsy!” It’s Thomas, leaning against the wooden fence that surrounds the training paddock. He holds a hand aloft, the sun catching the pale cream of the parchment paper. “Two letter’s just arrived for you, son.”

JB peers over Eggsy’s shoulder warily, then gives a delighted nicker when he sees who it is, trotting over to the fence happily and snorting right in Thomas’ face – his customary form of greeting.

“Yes, good afternoon,” Thomas says with a begrudging smile, patting the beast's neck. He hands the letters off to Eggsy and takes JB’s reins so that the horse won’t do a runner. “How was he today, lad?”

“Jumpy,” Eggsy sighs, turning the envelopes over in his hands, and brightens up immensely when he sees the familiar imprint on the wax seal.

Thomas gives him a knowing look and heaves himself over the fence, transferring the reins to his dominant hand.

“I’ll take this one back to the stables,” he reassures, nudging Eggsy in the shoulder. “You go and write your letters – give the master our best while you’re at it, and thank him for the uniforms. It was…well, it was very thoughtful of him, is all; me an’ the lads appreciate it.”

Eggsy nods, flashes him a quick grin, and hops over the fence, setting off towards the manor at a run. He could open the envelopes there and then, but he’s found the thrill of anticipation heightens the experience, and reading letters at his desk in the library has become something of a ritual. His day-to-day clothes are suitable now to be worn about the manor house – soft tunics in rich greens and reds and purples, dark breeches that must have been tailored to fit him they’re so comfortable; all gifts from Lord Hart, sent at the end of every month without fail.

There are always gifts for his mother too, pretty trinkets and soft bedsheets and woven blankets and shawls – all sensible, practical things that would be put to good use. Initially she had put them away in her keepsake chest, never to be touched, her face stony and her mouth pinched. But over time as the gifs kept coming, her reception had softened, and sure enough the cottage has become full of pretty things that his mother keeps scrupulously clean and leaves on display along the mantelpiece.

“Good afternoon, Gareth,” Philip greets him when he opens the front door, as stubbornly formal as ever. “Will you be taking refreshment in the library again today?”

“Don’t go to any trouble, Sir, I know where the kitchens are,” Eggsy tries to protest, but Philip has already taken his argument as an indication that yes, he would like something to eat, and has turned to head in the direction of the kitchens.

The boy sighs – a fond, exasperated sound – but surrenders to the man’s wishes, knowing from five years’ experience that pursuing the matter will get him nowhere. Instead he makes for the east wing, smiling at Brigette as he passes her cleaning a suit of arms in the hallway, and heads straight for his desk the moment he hits the library.

Eggsy takes a moment to turn the envelopes over in his hands, admiring the weight of them, the quality of paper and the elegant curve of address on the front. _Gareth Unwin._ It doesn’t sound very noble to his own ears, but written in Harry and Merlin’s fluid cursive, it’s positively a work of art.

He opens Merlin’s first. As always, there’s a neat list of tasks for him to complete before the nobleman’s return – historical figures he needs to study, books Merlin wants him to read, rivers and mountain ranges in the north that the scholar wants him to memorise. Eggsy doesn’t imagine he’ll ever find himself alone and without a map so very far from Lord Hart’s estate, but Merlin seems to think it important that he knows the lay of the Kingdom like the back of his hand. The boy doesn’t tend to argue – he never emerges the victor.

There’s a separate letter that’s less formal, written in Merlin’s small, neat script, apologising for his extended absence from the manor and bemoaning the fact that Court has been so terribly demanding this past fortnight. It’s the longest Merlin’s ever been absent for, and Eggsy misses his tutor something fierce – the man’s friendly mannerisms and easy humour are something he’s grown very attached to, and he hopes that whatever situation has kept Merlin occupied these past few weeks won’t become a regular occurrence. He longs for the man’s cheerful company.

Philip arrives with a tray of refreshments – a mug of sweet pressed apple cider, a bowl of sliced fruits and two currant buns still warm and sticky from the oven. Eggsy thanks him profusely, and stuffs half a bun in his mouth the moment the library door is closed again, ravenous after his morning spent training the colts. He may be a scholar now, but he’s still a growing boy of twelve, with an appetite to match.

He picks up Harry’s letter, running his fingertips over the Hart crest on the wax seal reverently, feeling the weight of the pendant around his neck that bears the same mark. He opens the letter with the utmost care, sliding out the thick parchment and unfolding it, eyes drinking in the elegant cursive eagerly.

 

_My dearest Eggsy,_

_I am delighted to hear that your mother’s health continues to improve, and that the shawl I sent her has provided some small measure of comfort during her illness. You must urge her to visit my coastal estate to the west of our great kingdom once she has fully recovered, the sea air is said to do wonders for one’s health, or so my physician has assured me._

_My condolences for your loss, dear boy. Jubilee was a fine mare, loyal to the bone and a true beauty. I am relieved to know that her passing was a peaceful one. And my, to think that your young JB is now a grown horse himself – how these past few years have flown! I still cannot quite believe that you now hold thirteen summers to your name, for I can recall a time when you were but a babe in arms, and it forces me to accept the sobering reality that I no longer sit in the cusp of youth myself._

 

Here, Eggsy snorts out a delighted laugh and accidentally inhales a mouthful of cider. He turns away from the writing desk to cough, trying to avoid spraying droplets over his letters. Wiping his eyes and setting his drink aside, he returns his full attention to the missive. 

 

 _Your notion to gift the grooms with a designated garb of their own was a point well made._ _It had not occurred to me that they would take offense at being the only workforce without a uniform. I hope the colouring suits their taste; I took your advice to heart, and the silhouette you drew was truly novel. I have never seen my Court tailors quite so enthusiastic about a task, and I have you to thank for it._

_I must apologise to you again, for it seems as though my duties in the capital will once more keep me from celebrating the harvest festival with you in person. Matters of state have rendered me a prisoner of my own position, and I am bound by duty to remain here as long as the King, long may He reign, requires it. Animosities between King Valentine and our own sovereign are growing thicker by the day, and I fear that conflict between our too Kingdoms is not far off. The mansion lies so far from the borderlands that I doubt such political tensions will be felt by those at Hart Manor, and it brings me great comfort to know that your safety is thus ensured during these troubling times. Pray remain within the grounds of the estate, and I must urge you not to undertake any adventures further afield until political matters have resolved themselves._

_Merlin tells me that your education is progressing very well indeed, and I cannot begin to express the pride I take in hearing of your continued commitment and dedication to your studies. He also speaks highly of your footwork – we’ll make a fine swordsman of you yet. I look forward to the day when I might see it in person._

_Give my regards to your mother, and keep yourself out of trouble until Merlin returns. I need not remind you of the dangers of apple trees, my boy._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Harry Hart_

 

Eggsy reads it through again, and twice more, before finally setting it aside with a smile and opening the top draw of his writing desk to pull out a sheaf of parchment. There was once a time when he would spend long days slaving over his letters to Harry – writing them out on his slate in chalk, over and over, until he was confident he would not make too many errors and waste precious paper.

His very first letter, sent only three days after beginning his lessons with Merlin four years ago, had read simply:

_Lord Hart,_

_Thank you for the lessons. I will try my best._

_Yours, Eggsy Unwin_

But even that had taken him several painful hours to write, Merlin sitting at his elbow and helping him guide the pen over the paper. The words had been large, his penmanship abysmal, the parchment dotted with ink splotches, but he’d been so _proud_ of it that he’d dashed to the stables to show everyone (including the horses) before allowing Merlin to seal it and send it with a courier to the capital.

Nowadays, he can pen two letters in a single afternoon, and only then because he takes the added time to ensure that his script is neat and legible like Harry and Merlin’s. They converse weekly, sometimes oftener, and Eggsy has a beautifully crafted wooden chest beneath his bed (a birthday gift from Harry last year) into which he places each and every letter. He takes them out sometimes, when he can’t sleep or is troubled by bad dreams, and reads them all over again from the start to cheer himself up.

He hasn’t seen Harry Hart in person since he was eight years old, and yet somehow he feels as though he’s known the man all his life. He’ll confide in him about matters he wouldn’t dare discuss even with the likes of Thomas; confessing fears and concerns and hopes and dreams and wishes with very little effort on his part. Perhaps it’s because Harry gives such sage advice. Whenever something significant occurs in his day-to-day life, he makes a note of it in his pocket journal (another gift from Harry) so that he’ll remember to tell the nobleman all about it later that day, or whenever he pens his next letter. He often confesses an error to the nobleman long before he’s plucked up the courage to tell his own mother about it, and there’s a part of him that feels horribly guilty for it. There’s an ever bigger part of him that enjoys having a secret confidant.

One would think it a lonely existence, with so few people his own age at Lord Hart’s estate, but Eggsy doesn’t feel lonely. In fact, it’s really quite the opposite. He has his mother, and Thomas, and the stable hands, and the horses, and Merlin, and _Harry._  That’s more than enough.

Mm. He’s quite content.

 

 

 

 

…………………………

 

 

 

 

The arrival of Sir Percival and Lady Roxane sends the entire manor house into chaos.

“A _lady,_ ” Hugh, the chief gardener, bemoans as he cuts through another rose stem. “In Hart Manor. We’ve not housed a lady here since the Mistress died – oh, twelve years ago now. What was the master thinking? There’s not a soul here to keep her company but the maids.” He shakes his head. “But what is it to me, eh? Tis no concern o’mine. It’ll only tar our reputation as hosts, but nae bother.”

“Actually,” Eggsy interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck and peering worriedly at the veritable mountain of roses piled up in Hugh’s wooden wheelbarrow, “I think Lord Hart’s wantin’ _me_ to entertain her.”

Harry had been rather specific in his request, as a matter of fact.

 

_Lady Roxanne Morton will be staying at the manor for a short few days while her uncle, Sir Percival, attends to business matters nearby. I would be much obliged if you could act as her companion during her stay, as there will be precious little to keep her entertained at the house without the proper company. I am confident the two of you will get along splendidly._

 

And, well. That had been that. Of course he’d agreed, how could he not? Harry so rarely asked anything of him, and gave Eggsy so _much,_ that the boy always jumped at the first sign of an opportunity to return the favour.

The gardener gives him a pitying look. “Is that so?” He blinks, shakes his head, and goes back to his work. “Well, it isn’t my place t’say nought. Only maybe don’t show her the stables, aye, lad?”

Eggsy tries not to take offence at that, and fails. “What’s wrong with the stables?”

“Nothin’ at all, boy. All I’m saying is that it might not be what she’s accustomed to,” Hugh tries, attempting diplomacy in the face of Eggsy’s disgruntled expression. “Her ladyship hails from the capital, does she not? Well, she’ll be used to seein’ all sorts of fine things. Lace an’ marble an’ the like.”

The boy pulls a face at that, and leaves Hugh to finish gathering the flowers for Lady Roxane’s chambers, walking back along the stone path through rose garden towards the mansion. He wishes now that he’d consulted Harry a week ago when he’d first replied to the lord’s letter, reassuring him that he would keep her ladyship entertained during her visit. Harry’s bound to know more about noblewomen and their tastes than a country lad of barely sixteen summers.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his messy blond hair, kicking sullenly at a loose stone on the path. Merlin isn’t home to offer his own advice on the matter – indeed, his tutor’s due to return with their guests in tow later today. Perhaps Eggsy will have time to pull the man aside after dinner and quietly ask him for aid.

Except that when Lady Roxanne Morton arrives, it is not in a bejewelled carriage or swathed in silk and lace and pretty trinkets, but dressed in a practical riding coat and breeches and knee-high boots, sitting astride the most stunningly beautiful charcoal-black horse that Eggsy has ever laid eyes on.

“Eggsy!” Merlin greets cheerfully, swinging down from his own mount and crossing the courtyard to pull the youth into a tight embrace, clapping him firmly on the back. “Look at you, lad, growing like a weed. I swear you creep up another two inches every time I’m away.”

The boy grins back at him, and returns the embrace just as fiercely. It’s been more than two months since Merlin’s last visit – the political situation in the capital has been more pressing of late, he’s been told - the old King himself has been dethroned, and a new sovereign reins, although news of how or why or _who_ doesn't travel this far from the capital without dissolving into rumours and hearsay, and Harry refuses to speak of it.

Still, he's missed his tutor tremendously, and tells him so. Merlin’s smile softens, and he squeezes the youth’s shoulder as they part.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long, lad. But here, where are my manners?” He turns towards their guests, who have both dismounted and come to stand a few feet away, having passed their reigns to the waiting stable hands. “Eggsy Unwin, may I present Sir Percival and Lady Roxanne Morton, honoured guests of Lord Hart.”

Eggsy bows, clenched fist pressed to his chest as he’s been taught. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord, my lady. I hope you find your stay here a pleasant one.” He gestures towards the stone steps, where the doorman and an assembly of servers are waiting patiently to receive their guests. “If you’ll follow Philip, he’ll show you to your chambers. I’m sure you’d like to freshen up after your long journey. Pray, join us in the drawing room for refreshment when you’re ready.”

He bows again, shallower this time, and receives two polite nods and a cheerful smile from Lady Roxanne as they pass him by to head up towards the manor after Philip. Eggsy waits until they’ve passed through the front door before gusting out a relieved sigh, his shoulders sagging.

“That was very well done, lad,” Merlin reassures him, patting his back. “The perfect host. Harry would be proud of you.”

And oh look, there it is. That flare of pleasant warmth and satisfaction right beneath his breastbone. It’s truly astounding what as little as six simple words can do to a man.

Entertaining Lady Roxanne turns out to be far more enjoyable than Eggsy had anticipated. The following morning, when he rises at dawn and heads to the stables to greet JB, he finds her Ladyship already there, brushing down the shining charcoal coat of her own mare.

“You needn’t do that, my lady,” he tries to protest, because what sort of host would he be to neglect his guest’s mount? But Roxanne shakes her head dismissively and smiles over the lip of the stall at him.

“It’s no trouble,” she insists. “And that aside, I fear Beatrice is rather particular when it comes to her grooming habits. She seldom lets another hand hold the brush. Isn’t that so, you stubborn old thing?”

Beatrice continues munching on her oats contentedly. Eggsy smiles, compelled to reach out and smooth his fingers over that glossy coat, but he keeps his hands to himself, unwilling to disturb the mare during her breakfast.

“She’s beautiful,” he enthuses, unable to help himself. “I’ve never seen a coat quite like hers.”

“Thank you. I freely admit to being rather proud of it,” the noblewoman replies, setting the brush aside and smoothing her hand over the gleaming flank. Then she sends him a curious glance. “How did you know to find me here, my lord?”

Eggsy balks at the title, but manages to stop himself from laughing in her face. That would be rude. “Begging your pardon, but I'm no lord,” he protests, amused. “I’m not even born of noble blood. I’m a stable hand by birth, scholar by choice, and in every manner your humble servant.” He dips his head in a polite half-bow, then glances up at her through his lashes, curious. “Do I _look_ like a lord?”

“Well, a young one, perhaps,” she admits, smiling at her own error. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that you were Lord Hart’s ward. At least that’s how he spoke of you in his missive to me last month.”

The boy blinks, surprised at that. Harry’s been telling everyone Eggsy's his _ward?_  

Well…in a way, he supposes, that sort of makes sense. What with the tuition and the clothes and the swordsmanship lessons and all the expensive gifts. But he’s never said as much to Eggsy, at least not in so many words.

“I’m sorry, I’ve put you in an awkward position,” Roxanne apologises, ducking out of the stall and pushing the partition back into place. She’s dressed in her riding coat and breeches again, not the pretty flowing gown she’d worn to dinner last night. “Pray, forget I said anything on the matter. I assume you ride?”

Eggsy nods. “Yes, my lady.”

She waves a hand. “Enough of that. I’ll drop the ‘my lord’ if you’ll call me Roxy. Nowhere that my Uncle might hear us, mind – he seldom approves of a lax in formality and etiquette.”

“Roxy,” Eggsy echoes obligingly. Then he grins, and offers her his arm. “Let me introduce you to Just Bonkers.”

The look she gives him is understandably baffled, but she goes with him all the same.

All in all, they spend a pleasant week together, riding across the open grounds of the estate and racing through the orchard, JB’s rapid pace easily matched by Beatrice’s long stride. The two horses seem to take a liking to one another, and graze together while Eggsy and Roxy sit beneath the blooming apple trees and share a luncheon basket, talking about their shared passion for horses and swordsmanship and the siren-call of adventure in the unexplored wildlands to the east. Lady Roxanne seems determined to become a King’s Guard like her grandmother had been, and during her short stay at the manor she somehow manages to coerce Eggsy into promising that he will take the oath with her on bended knee when they both come of age, and swear fealty to their King.

He has a feeling he probably ought to regret making such a promise, but he’s far too busy feeling ecstatic at having found his soulmate in Roxy to pay much heed to common sense.

 

 

 

 

……………………….

 

 

 

 

He’s not long since turned seventeen when his mother falls in love with a baker from the neighbouring village.

At first Dean seems nice enough. He’s not much older than Michelle, with his own stall down at the marketplace where he sells his goods, and by all accounts he seems to be an honest, hard-working man. He could do with learning to smile a bit more, but that’s just Eggsy’s opinion, and he’s careful to keep it to himself. Besides, his mother seems truly delighted in her newfound love – it’s a relief to see her smiling and laughing so freely again – and the two of them appear to share a genuine affection for one another.

“She seems happy,” Roxy had commented, when she and Eggsy had escorted his mother to a neighbouring village to gather whatever materials she might need for her wedding. “This Dean fellow, I take it he’s the decent sort?”

And Eggsy hadn’t been able to say any different. He had nothing to show to the contrary, only his own slightly biased reservations – it was easy to compare Dean to his father, God rest him, and find the man sorely lacking in many areas. But then _any_ man would be found wanting when weighed against the memory of Lee Unwin. Eggsy had only known him as a young boy, and still remembered him with the same adoring eyes, although he knew his father cannot have been without his own faults.

So Eggsy stops comparing, stops fighting the inevitable, and keeps his reservations to himself.

Michelle and Dean are married in the Spring under the pink apple-blossoms in Lord Hart’s orchard, with their friends in attendance – a simple wedding by all accounts. But Dean seems to have little in the way of coin, and scarce few family and friends, and Michelle had declined Harry’s written offer of anything more elegant than a small outdoor ceremony.

Eggsy kisses his mother’s cheek, shakes his step-father’s hand, and wishes them both lifelong happiness despite the unease in his gut telling him that the man doesn’t belong there, where his father had once stood – it’s been nine years, it’s time to let his mother move on past her grief.

Dean sells his baker’s shop in the village and moves into the cottage with them, and for the first six months, all his well. The head cook at Lord Hart’s manor offers the baker a job in her own kitchens, but he declines. Indeed, he declines all offers of work. Eggsy finds this strange, having never been idle a day in his life – but when asked about it, Dean simply insists that he doesn’t want to push his way in and step on people’s toes, and that he’s happy helping Michelle tend to her gardens.

Only he _doesn’t_ help, and too often Eggsy finds him sitting doing nothing, or smoking his pipe on the low bench outside their cottage while his mother toils alone with her herbs. Still, he bites his tongue, forces himself to remain pleasant. As long as his mother is happy, and the man doesn’t interfere with Eggsy’s own duties, he won’t voice a single complaint.

But then the warmth of summer bleeds away, the skies greying with the promise of Fall, and his mother learns that she is pregnant with child.

Dean’s whole demeanour changes overnight.

Eggsy had thought that the man smiled precious little before, but he’d never scowled quite so fiercely as he does these days. Weeks pass, and his sullen mood only worsens, with no end in sight. Eggsy finds that he can’t do anything to please the man – he is constantly walking too slow, or breathing too loud, or taking too long to complete a task. His every action is criticised, his very existence found inadequate, day in and day out. It’s exhausting.

Eggsy bites his tongue so hard it brings tears to his eyes on occasion, but he keeps quiet, because Dean still remains pleasant and affectionate towards Michelle through it all. Perhaps the man’s just worried about the pregnancy, Eggsy tells himself. Perhaps he’s worried about being a father, and overcompensating by trying to control Eggsy as he would his own child?

Even to him, the excuses sound pathetically weak.

As the weeks pass, it becomes harder and harder to spend time at the cottage. Eggsy often rises before the sun has come up and flees to the relative peace and safety of the manor house, taking his breakfast with the staff down in the kitchens before tending to the horses. He spends long hours studying, or taking walks around the grounds, or riding JB through the woods – anything to keep him away from home, away from _Dean_ , as long as possible.

But he consequently sees precious little of his mother. She’s never alone anymore, Dean is always there lurking in the background or wrapped around her, and sometimes Eggsy feels like the man’s slotted himself between them deliberately, and he _hates_ him for it. He can barely manage a brief conversation without Dean interrupting, or berating Eggsy for some small (or imagined) error, and it becomes so wearying that the boy is often forced to get up from the table before his temper can get the better of him.

It doesn’t help that Merlin has been gone for more than four months now, and Roxy hasn't been able to visit the estate in weeks. The letters still come every week without fail, a written reassurance of their continued support and friendship, but with Dean’s darkening presence blotting out the joy from Eggsy’s everyday life, it feels as though he’s drowning at Hart Manor.

 _It’s like the happiness has been snatched clean from my chest,_ he writes to Harry one evening, a week or so before his eighteenth birthday. He hasn’t been able to sleep properly in three days, and he knows his penmanship is poor as a result. _Is this what I’m to expect from adulthood? If so, I don’t want it. If only it were possible to remain a child by choice._

He pauses, the tip of his quill poised above the paper, and hesitates for a long moment, torn by indecision. He’s deliberately been avoiding the subject of Dean for quite some time now, fearful that he will say something damning about the man that he will later come to regret. But tonight his endurance seems to have truly been pushed to its limit.

And so he confesses everything. Eggsy writes about the pregnancy, about how his mother has grown so worryingly pale and weak again under Dean’s shadow, about how she so seldom leaves the house because Dean doesn’t want her to, and consequently rarely sees her friends. About how Eggsy himself has barely spoken to her on more than a handful of occasions this past week because he simply cannot get a word in edgewise. About how it feels as though Dean is both forcing himself further into the cottage and forcing Eggsy  _out._

 

 _You told me once that I could always call upon you for aid,_ he writes, his hand aching from the strain of his grip. _And though i_ _t feels so terribly selfish of me to ask it of you now, given all you have done for me and my mother over the years, I fear this is my hour of need. I have ever trusted your wisdom in matters of  great importance. Any advice you could bestow upon me would be a blessing._

_I remain, forever and always, your devoted servant,_

_Eggsy_

 

 

It’s the longest letter he’s ever written, half a dozen pages in total, and he has to work hard to get it to fit inside the envelope. But once it’s been sealed with wax and sent away, it feels as though a huge weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

He falls asleep over his writing desk soon after.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on him for the next few days, and he cannot find the energy to look forward to his impending coming-of-age. There had been a time, not three months back, when the thought of reaching his maturity had filled him with gleeful anticipation – Roxy still writes letters to him at least fortnightly, and by all accounts intends to see that he keeps his promise and takes the oath of fealty when she does. The prospect of becoming a King’s Guard had once excited him – the notion that he might be able to serve alongside Harry in the capital, of being able to see him in person on a regular basis, had been an enticing one.

But that joy has been all but blotted out by his concern for his mother’s safety. He daren’t leave Lord Hart’s estate, not now. Not with his little brother or sister due to be born into the world come Springtime. He has a duty to Roxy to keep his word, and to Harry and Merlin who are expecting him to strive to achieve his true potential in the capital, but surely his first loyalty must be to his own flesh and blood? He cannot abandon his mother now.

It’s this ongoing internal battle that keeps him awake at night, keeps him pacing back and forth in the library, eyes overtired and aching in the dim, flickering candlelight. He ought to return home. It’s been two days since he ventured back there, and he cannot avoid Dean like this forever. Eggsy is almost a grown man now, for God’s sake. He needs to start acting like it.

The windows are dark when he arrives back at the cottage, testament to the lateness of the hour. He tries to be as quiet as possible as he sneaks in through the front door, but it creaks on its hinges anyway (bloody thing), and at the noise a shadow stirs in a chair near the fireplace, which has burned itself down to naught but pale orange embers.

“Where have you been?”

Eggsy doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. He closes the door behind him carefully and turns to head towards his bedchamber. “Attending to my duties. Goodnight, Sir.”

“Attending to my duties,” Dean echoes mockingly, with exaggerated pronunciation. “Think you’re so much better than us common folk, don’t you, boy? Puttin’ on airs an’ graces, actin’ like your Hart’s son an’ not some snivelling little bastard dressed up in pretty frocks.”

The youth clenches his hands into fists, but forces himself to keep walking. “Goodnight, Sir.”

A meaty hand clamps down on his shoulder as he reaches his bedroom door, spinning him around and shoving him back against it, and arm across his throat pinning him in place.

“She told me, you know,” Dean says, low and angry, and Eggsy can smell the stale wine on his breath, see the hazy look of madness in his eyes. “Told me about the promise Hart made to your idiot father before he died.” His arm tightens across the boy’s throat. “You could have your pick of anythin’, an’ yet you choose to live in a shithole like this? Bloody _fool._ Or maybe you just want to keep it all for yourself, is that it? Spendin’ the day pretendin’ to be lord of the manor while your mother and I squat here in this pigsty?”

Eggsy doesn’t push against him. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. For all his prowess with the sword and shield, his strength has failed him now in his hour of need. Confronted by his own step-father, his long-thought fears finally coming to light, he can scarce find his voice, let alone fight back.

“This is our home,” he insists, his voice hoarse and uneven. “It’s belonged to the Unwins for years, and we wanted to keep it that way.”

Dean rolls his eyes and heaves a heavy, wine-pungent sigh. “Leave the sentimental drivel to your mother, boy. Now listen here.” He holds a sausage-thick finger an inch away from Eggsy’s face. “Tomorrow you’re goin’ to write one of those pretty letters o' yours askin’ Lord Hart to give me an’ your mother a set of rooms at the manor. An’ since we might want to redecorate an' the like, ask him for some coin while you’re at it.”

The boy stares back at him with poorly veiled incredulity, mouth slightly agape. Dean’s a madman. Eggsy would have to be half out of his mind to make such a selfish, presumptuous request - and after all that Harry’s done for him and his family, too.

"No," he says flatly. “I won’t do it.”

A sharp, backhanded blow snaps his head to the side and steals the breath from his lungs. Pain flares to life in his cheekbone and he grits his teeth against it, turning back to glare at the man, eyes burning treacherously.

Dean points his finger at him again. “That was a warnin’, boy,” the baker says. “An’ unless you want me to take a strap to your miserable hide, you’ll do as I say.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Eggsy breathes, and realises even as the next blow hits that he’s known it all along. That uneasy feeling in his gut, that sense of wariness whenever he was around the other man. It’s because there’s a part of Dean that’s clearly _unhinged._

The man doesn’t take a strap to him after all, but only because he seems to find his fists more convenient. It’s all over quickly in a blur of hard, heavy blows, leaving Eggsy on his knees, clutching at his side as blood pours from his nose into his mouth, face and ribs throbbing fiercely, watching dumbly through blurred vision as Dean wipes off his knuckles and bids him goodnight, walking back across the cottage proper towards his own bedchamber.

Eggsy sleeps fitfully that night, part of him fearful to relax into slumber lest Dean decide to finish the job, but mostly just too sore and angry and upset and disappointed with himself to let his mind be at peace. The moment the sky outside his window begins to show the first hint of sunrise, he’s up and dressed and out of the door, a leather satchel slung of his shoulder full of bread and cheese and apples. He stops by the fountain in the rose gardens to peer at his reflection in the still water, wincing as he probes his swollen, reddened cheek and split lip, and the darkening bruises around his left eye.

At least his nose isn’t crooked. But _God,_ it doesn’t half look awful.

He splashes water on his face to clean away the dried flakes of blood, grimacing at the way the coldness seems to seep into his aching jaw, and leaves the gardens in search of JB.

“Mornin’,” he slurs, leaning against the side of the beast’s stall. It hurts to talk, but the sacrifice is worth it when the horse bumps his muzzle against Eggsy’s brow affectionately. “I missed you too, darlin’. Come on, let’s go for a ride, just you an’ me. Get away from here for a while.”

JB gives a soft nicker of agreement, and Eggsy kisses the white star between his eyes and opens the stall door. He doesn’t even bother with a saddle, just swings himself up onto JB’s back and guides the horse out with a gentle nudge of his thighs.

It’s not until he’s cantering out across the meadow towards the woods, the manor house growing smaller and more distant behind him, that he finally lets himself cry, the tears whipped from his bruised cheeks by the howling wind.

 

 

 

 

…………………

 

 

 

 

Eggsy doesn’t dare return to the cottage after that, not until his injuries have healed.

He can’t let his mother see him like this. It would break her heart to know that the man she loves despises her son so fiercely, and in her delicate state he isn’t willing to run the risk it. Such an emotional confrontation might tip the balance on the scales and unsettle her pregnancy.

So he keeps mostly to the library for the next two days, burying himself in his studies, reading and re-reading through his letters to glean whatever comfort he can from the familiar words. He’d moved his keepsake chest to the manor weeks ago, when Dean’s attitude towards him had begun to take a turn for the worse, and he’s more than glad of it now.

He can’t even visit the stables, save for in the early hours of the morning before the other men have woken, or late at night after everyone else is abed. It’s not that he fears them – it’s that he already knows what their response will be the moment they see the darkening bruises and puffy swelling along his cheekbone and around his eye. The grooms have been his family for as far back as he can remember, and they tend to be a tad protective of their own. And God forbid if Thomas sees him like this – the stable master will likely feel inclined to march up to the cottage and drag Dean out by his testicles.

So for two days, through his own sneakiness and cunning, he manages to keep it all a secret; he avoids the manor staff simply by keeping his back turned when they come in with trays of food, pretending to be fully engrossed in his studies and thanking them absently, a hand pressed over the bruised side of his face to conceal it, elbow braced on the edge of his desk. He sneaks around the stables and goes as far as to hide behind horses whenever he hears someone coming, soothing the baffled steeds with whispered words and a gentle touch. Thomas calls out for him a few times, and even comes looking for him at the mansion once or twice, but Eggsy puts his tree-climbing skills to good use and hides on top of the bookcases when the man arrives.

Everything comes to a head on the third day, the day before his eighteenth birthday, when Merlin arrives at the mansion unannounced.

Indeed, ‘unannounced’ is perhaps putting it mildly. There’s hardly another soul about at this hour, only the cooks beginning to potter about in the kitchens in preparation for breakfast. Eggsy’s only half-awake himself, nibbling with a waning appetite on thin slices of apple, half-reading a book on the history of water-based magic. It’s all a load of drivel – to Eggsy’s knowledge there haven’t been any druids around since before the Great Kingdom came to be – but it’s a rather fascinating read all the same.

“What on earth happened to your face?”

He startles violently, almost unseating himself from his stool, heart hammering wildly in his chest as he twists to stare, wide-eyed, at the nobleman who’s suddenly appeared out of thin air to the left of his writing desk.

Seemingly oblivious to his state of shock, Merlin strides forward to gently pinch his chin, turning his head this way and that. And Eggsy ought to pull away, really, and cover up the bruises, but he’s just so bloody _relieved_ to see his mentor that can’t bring himself to pretend anymore.

The nobleman leans down to bring their heads to a level, his brow creasing with the beginnings of a dark frown. “Eggsy. Is this your step-father’s doing?”

And it’s an easy thing to give that slight, shallow nod, easier than he’d thought it would be. A burden loosens itself from his shoulders with the motion, and out beyond the windows the coming dawn seems a little brighter on the horizon.

Merlin’s lips have formed a thin, grim line, but his touch on Eggsy’s bruised face remains gentle. Fingertips trace over his cheek and up to his temple, then around his eye in a slow circle, three times in total. The touch leaves in its wake a peculiar sort of tingling sensation, a buzzing sort of warmth that grows more pronounced by the second. It’s not uncomfortable in slightest, but it doesn’t feel entirely _natural_ either.

When Merlin finally drops his hand and takes a step back, he looks decidedly calmer, but _feels_ a whole lot deadlier. It’s as though the air in the room is alive with his anger.

“Wait here,” his mentor instructs, his tone soft but brooking no argument. “I’ll be back shortly.”

And then he vanishes. Quite literally vanishes. One moment he’s there, and the next he isn’t, and Eggsy is left staring at empty space. He decides it’s time to get some air, because clearly his mind is failing him after too long spent in the library

He manages to make his way through the mansion without being seen - the manor staff appear to have vanished - and slips out through the front door quietly, rubbing at his face. He can still feel the swelling there, but the ache has all but diminished, and he can open his left eye without much difficulty at all. How curious. He starts to head down the steps, intending to take a stroll through the gardens, but freezes in place, wide-eyed, at the sight that greets him

There’s a small cavalry waiting for him in the courtyard.

Heart racing, he begins backing up the steps slowly, only to startle at the gentle hand on his elbow.

“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the carriage, Sir,” Philip tells him kindly. The elderly doorman gestures towards the fine carriage in the midst of the armoured host, and pats his back. “Run along now, lad. It won’t do to keep the King waiting.”

The King? Oh, good Lord in heaven. His royal Majesty himself, here, at Hart Manor, and with Eggsy dressed in a simple green tunic and breeches with his hair unbrushed, looking like a pit-fighter who’s lost his latest match against a far superior opponent. Why hadn’t Harry warned him about the visit? Why hadn’t Merlin?

He brushes down the front of his tunic as best he can, straightening his sleeves and collar, pressing his hand against the familiar outline of Harry’s pendant where it rests against his chest beneath his clothes. Well, there’s nothing else for it.

With his head held high and his shoulders squared, he descends into the courtyard.

The assembled host part as one to make way for him, which he finds rather unsettling, and a uniformed guardsman moves to open the door to the carriage as he approaches, bowing to him respectfully. Eggsy nods back, and hesitates only a brief moment before putting his foot on the bracer and stepping up into the carriage.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, kneeling immediately, his eyes lowered. He takes in the shining boots with their gold clasps first, then the rich fabric of the man's breeches, the deep red and pristine white of his shirt and waistcoat and tailcoat, decorated with shining gold buttons. “You wanted to speak with me, Sire?”

“Good Lord. What on earth happened to your face?”

His head snaps up at the voice, eyes widening as he takes in the man’s familiar, if age-softened features. His lips part in a soundless gasp, the breath stolen from him at the sight of Harry Hart, here, _in person._ Harry Hart with a fine golden wreath of a crown on his. Harry Hart, the _King._

“My…my lord,” he stammers, frozen in place where he kneels, Harry’s hand moving to cup his cheek, a thumb smoothing over the bruises. “I mean, your Majesty, I-”

“Harry,” the older man corrects softly, his left hand coming up to cup the other cheek, cradling Eggsy’s face gently. His brow is creased in concern, but there’s warmth and affection in his gaze the likes of which Eggsy has seldom seem directed towards himself. “It’s just Harry, my boy. That's how you address me in our letters, is it not?”

Eggsy stares at him, his head still reeling. “But you’re the _King._ ”

“Indeed.” Harry sighs, thumbs brushing across both his bruised cheekbones in synchronisation. “I fear we have a great many things to discuss, you and I.” His expression falls a little, and suddenly he looks sad and tired, just like he had done all those years ago. “Forgive me, darling, I oughtn’t to have stayed away for so long. Perhaps if I'd returned sooner-”

“You were busy rulin’ a Kingdom,” the younger man interrupts quietly, leaning into his touch. He won't let Harry blame himself for the work of Dean's brutal hands. “I think I can understand why you had to prioritise.”

He’s unable to tear his gaze away from the man’s face, committing every wrinkle and laugh-line to memory. Harry’s greying a little around the temples now, but his hair is still a rich, dark brown, and his _eyes…_ God, the man’s just as beautiful as Eggsy remembers him. Even more so, now that he’s seeing him with the eyes of a grown man.

“We have much to talk about, do we not?” Harry reiterates, a warm smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “But first, perhaps we could take a turn about the estate. I’m keen to make the acquaintance of a certain eccentric companion of yours.”

At that, Eggsy _beams._ He takes Harry’s hand, pressing a kiss to the signet ring there (Merlin had taught him the appropriate Court mannerisms years ago, and now Eggsy knows exactly why, that conniving _bastard),_ and reaches behind him to open the door to the carriage.

“JB’s going to love you, Sire, just you watch.”

 

…

 

 

It isn’t until much later, after an exhilarating day spent showing Harry around his own estate, pointing out everything that has changed and improved over the past ten years, that the good news finally reaches him:

Dean Baker has fled from the grounds without so much as a peep to anyone.

Eggsy isn’t entirely sure what Merlin must have threatened him with to make him leave so hastily, but he suspects it might have something to do with the fact that his tutor is an _actual_ magic-wielding wizard, who apparently has the power to manipulate the very forces of nature. Harry, it seems, is not the only one who has kept secrets from him these past ten years.

Although in all fairness, Harry being crowned King was apparently an unplanned development; after many years spent hunting down the spies and assassins from Valentine’s Kingdom who had threatened the crown, it seems Harry had gone on to discover that the attack on Hart Manor had been implemented by King Chester himself and not their neighbouring sovereign, in a ploy to eliminate the more powerful members of Court who Chester felt might one day overthrow him.

His mother seemingly knows nothing of what transpired between Merlin and her husband; only that she woke to find herself alone in the cottage with all of Dean's belongings gone, as though he’d never been there in the first place. To Eggsy’s genuine surprise, she doesn’t seem particularly upset about the sudden turn of events, and smiles at him warmly when he eventually plucks up the courage to venture back home, cupping his cheeks (now miraculously unbruised – Merlin’s doing, he’d wager) between her hands and kissing his brow.

“Never you mind, Eggsy-love,” she reassures. “We’ve got each other - and a good King on the throne at last, praise be. That’s a decent sort of world for a child to be born into, don’t you think?”

Eggsy pulls her to him in a fierce embrace, laughing through his tears, and agrees that yes, it certainly is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: A medieval era/fantasy AU. Harry is an actual knight, and recruits Eggsy for his order. Events can reflect or not reflect the movie, your prerogative. However it would be very interesting to see Eggsy being really into horses or good with horses, to reflect his skill with cars, and to see Roxy kicking ass as a member of the knights, too.
> 
>  
> 
> (So I didn't quite stick to the specifics of the prompt, but my imagination ran away with me. I'm probably going to add an additional part to this later on, where Eggsy swears fealty to Harry and becomes a knight, but my muse decided it wanted to end here. :P I hope you enjoyed it!)


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